


I'm here

by Unpainted Canvas (LallaChan)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Caring!Holmes, Dark, Drama, Found-out, Frightened!Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suggestion of possible rape, good ending, mention of incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LallaChan/pseuds/Unpainted%20Canvas
Summary: “You’re a sodomite.”Watson dropped his glass, the thump loud and piercing in the sudden stillness of the room. He turned to look at his friend, his only friend and felt every ounce of life leave him. Disgust, pure disgust stared back.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re a sodomite.”

 

Watson dropped his glass, the thump loud and piercing in the sudden stillness of the room. He turned to look at his friend, his only friend and felt every ounce of life leave him. Disgust, pure disgust stared back.

 

His hands trembled as he turned to leave the room, already feeling his heart pounding, fear and trepidation tight in his chest. Denying it was foolish and he would never, _could_ never insult Holmes’ intelligence in such a manner. He had to leave. But Holmes was quick, and angry and went to block his escape with a long arm across the door.

 

Watson’s ears started to ring, he couldn't meet his gaze.

 

“I saw you.” Holmes said, voice low and angry.

 

Watson closed his eyes, his breathing becoming shallow. He should have guessed. Last night, of course Holmes had followed him, of course he’d chosen that night to do so. If he could he would wipe it away, desperately he wished he could do so, wished he could make this be some terrible nightmare...

 

He opened his eyes, Holmes was still there, angry and breathing like a dragon ready to blow fire. Watson’s throat went dry, the ringing intensified and he suddenly felt light-headed. He made to speak, made to tell him he was sorry he didn’t mean for him to ever find out. Wanted to somehow fix this before he lost Holmes... A small croak broke free and instantly tears sprung to his eyes.

 

He’d lost his family he was losing his best friend, the only one he’d allowed close, _foolish-foolish-foolish_ , and he had no power to stop it. Trembling hands wiped away the small drop of moisture, and he swayed from shock at the sudden thought of how much his life was about to change. If he would even have a life after this. Holmes was going to throw him out, he was going to give him over to the police. Watson in turn was about to vomit.

 

Holmes grabbed his shoulders and Watson cried out, flinching away, but his friend’s grip remained.

 

Holmes was speaking, Watson just focussed on his breathing, trying to remain standing, he couldn't afford fainting. He didn't know what Holmes would do to him if was unconscious – the thought alone made him shiver anew. Gently he was pulled, his stomach went tight, terrified of what repercussion his friend would turn on him - and knowing he had every right to do so. Then he was sitting, and Holmes’ face was visible through blurred vision, kneeling in front of him, talking... almost gently, his face a mask of concern.

 

For a moment he could believe it.

 

No. Like his brother he was lying, he would turn against him at a drop of a hat. He tried to pull away and stand, shaking his head, but Holmes held him - _don’t hurt me. Please I’ll leave, just don’t hurt me like they did_. Holmes’ voice became desperate, but Watson pulled his arms up to his ears. Eyes tight shut, wishing to be away from this place.

 

Holmes grabbed his arms and Watson flinched away, letting out another pathetic little cry. _I’ll leave, please just let me leave, you’ll never see me again, just let me go before you tell me how much you hate me_.

 

Hands once more brushed his arms, softly they stroked, he could hear Holmes speaking, he could feel him kneeling still in front of him. His hands were coaxed away from his ears.

 

“You’re al right,”

 

Watson’s chest tightened, and his hands almost flew back to his ears, but Holmes wouldn’t allow him to.

 

“It’s al right my friend, it’s al right.” his hands continued to stroke and despite his own conviction that this was some sort of trap, Watson allowed himself to be lulled by it. “I’m here, I don’t hate you and I’m here.”

 

Watson took shuddering breaths, disbelieving. He started shaking again, Holmes was lying, he must be. That expression that furious state of bared teeth and fury. How could he have misinterpreted that? But he was reluctant to pull away. Somehow the small hope that Holmes didn’t hate him as much as he knew he did softened the maddening fear clawing up in his chest.

 

He opened his eyes, and Holmes looked at him with concern. Pushing down every doubt and fear he opened his mouth and managed a soft, “’m sorry, Holmes.”

 

Holmes’ expression relaxed and Watson’s in turn tightened, but Holmes continued to hold his arms even as they dropped to his lap, “No, my dear friend.” and here his eyes shifted downwards to his hands, “I am sorry.” he swallowed and looked back up, “I sprung this on you without considering how it might shock you, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I know I handled this poorly.”

 

Deep shuddering breaths brought him to a state of calm. He was still reluctant to truly believe Holmes, but he was willing to believe if only to have him close for a few minutes more. When Holmes stood he didn’t look up, his body too numb for anything other than staring at the empty fire-place. A glass of brandy was pushed into his hand and his fingers automatically curled around the cool glass.

 

Holmes sat down across from him in his own armchair. Only then did Watson even realise where he was sitting. He stared at the alcohol, waiting for Holmes to say his piece. His friend downed his drink and then placed it on the small table before turning to him.

 

“Your family found out?”

 

Watson hesitated feeling his heart contract at the words, but he could never deny his friend anything. He nodded, keeping his eyes on the glass.

 

“Your father didn’t handle it well?”

 

Watson closed his eyes then shook his head, “Mother.”

 

Holmes blinked, surprised. But his quick mind had the answer in no time, “He too was an invert.”

 

He nodded again and finally took a stinging sip of brandy. “Broke his heart that I couldn't take over the business.”

 

Holmes sat back, his hand tapping on the armrest of his chair, a sure sign something wasn’t adding up in his brain. “Harold, your brother, he was -”

 

“My _younger_ brother.” he managed and downed the rest of his drink. He snorted, “Naming your second son after the father is a little odd, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Holmes remained silent, and then for some reason the words flowed a little easier after that, “My father understood well-enough, but he still whipped me 20 times and shipped me off to university. My mother forbade me back in the house. I stayed at university through every semester, until Harold came along.”

 

Watson started to tremble again, and Holmes stood, taking his glass to fill with another shot of brandy, this time a double. He couldn’t meet his friends eyes, and kept them on his hands. “At first he was quite kind about my predicament, even understanding...” he felt his heart pound, “But his kindness was a falsehood, and soon he started demanding money,... favours in exchange for his silence on my nature.”

 

Holmes’ hand grabbed his arm in support, Watson wanted to hold it but refrained, uncertain how the touch would be taken. “This carried on until I was set to finish my last term.” he swiped a hand through his hair, holding back the vicious emotion clamping down on his chest, “He asked one last favour in exchange for his silence.”

 

“Your father’s pocket watch?”

 

He smiled, “Correct.” he swallowed stiffly, “I gave it, and finally handed over the letters.” Watson shifted. “After which I went to war, and he went to help father with the business.”

 

A heavy silence filled the room, and Watson quickly sipped his drink, waiting for the inevitable questions which were sure to follow. He wasn't fool enough to believe Holmes had accepted everything, but already he could see the puzzles falling into place in that brilliant mind. His brother's death, why it pained him so, why he never contacted family, why no family contacted him. Why he so rarely spoke of his childhood, why he had almost no friends save Holmes and his associates.

 

Finally Holmes turned, eyes unreadable and said in a voice thick with traps;

 

“What sort of favours?”

 

And instantly his hands started shaking again. Watson closed his eyes, there was no way to answer this in a way to soften it. But even if he didn't answer Holmes would know. And despite this fact, words wouldn't come and so instead Watson tried to remain as still as possible, hoping his friend would leave it.

 

But the hand tightened on his arm and Holmes slipped out of his chair to stand on his knees next to him. “What did he do Watson?”

 

“Holmes...”

 

“What did he do?” such vehemence, such anger, but Watson couldn't believe it was directed at him, not when Holmes' eyes burned with such intensity, when his hand refused to lift from his arm. But he didn't want to say, he didn't want him to know what was forced upon him...

 

“I...”

 

Holmes' hand touched his cheek, turning him to look at him, and Watson's will crumbled. “My mouth,” he said voice suddenly dry, “He mostly used my mouth.”

 

His hand slid up around his neck and brought him down touching their foreheads, “ _Mostly_.”

 

“Don't make me say it....” but he didn't have to. Holmes pulled him closer, holding him tightly to his chest as the first sobs ripped through him, making him shake and tremble. They stayed like this for a long time, until Watson could cry no more, until his leg became sore and his head begin to ache. Holmes held him until he finally felt the strength to pull away, and even then a hand remained upon his shoulder.

 

Watson sat back feeling more drained than he had in his life. Sleep wasn't far off.

 

“You are tired.” Holmes said, and stood. “You need to sleep.”

 

With a tired nod he stood and with Holmes' help they stumbled up the stairs. His friend behind him, keeping a light hand on his back. The touch was comforting, but Watson couldn't shake the trepidation, the darkness reminding him that tomorrow, in an hour, in a few minutes his friend would turn around and give him to the police. Or demand something from him, like a favour.

 

The thought made him stumble, and Holmes grabbed his arm before he could hit the ground. Nodding a thank you he walked into his room and quickly removed his jacket, vest and shoes before crawling under the covers, too tired for anything more.

 

He expected Holmes to leave, to shut the door and leave him forever. But his friend, so full of surprises, sat down next to him and quietly stroked his hair. “It's al right, my friend.” he said, and Watson closed his eyes, relishing the soft contact, “I'm here, and you shan't be hurt.”

 

And despite his better judgement, Watson believed him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The morning was cold. Rain pattered against the window, gently rising him from his sleep. He stared at the droplets, wondering if Holmes was up yet. Already his heart picked up in pace, a fresh rush of dread making him snuggle deeper into the blankets. He didn’t want to get up, if he could stay here forever, that would be lovely.

 

Outside thunder rumbled. The rain continued its assault on the window, he thought about what they’d discussed, about what he’d revealed about his past. His stomach clenched and he curled into a tighter ball.

 

No matter his fears, he would have to face them, like he did in the war and like he did with his father. With some effort Watson uncurled slowly and sat up, his head felt thick and body stiff from shock. Whatever Holmes decided to do, he hoped he did it quickly.

 

But Holmes hadn't seemed angry. Really if he thought about everything that had happened his friend had seemed almost kind. But that expression, that expression of pure disgust and hate. He shuddered, no... Holmes was being polite. After a night of thinking he should have made his logical decision.

 

Which was to throw Watson out. With a deep sigh he stood and got dressed.

 

He took longer than normal, but at 8:15 he went down the stairs to find Holmes, sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper. The familiarity of the sight nearly made him stumble.

 

“Good morning, Watson.” said Holmes, and for the life of him, Watson couldn't hear any malice or hate in that tone, and he felt some of the tension ease away. Despite it all, Holmes was being the gentleman he knew he was. What an absolutely kind man, he thought.

 

“Morning Holmes,” he said and cleared his throat, it was still raw.

 

Holmes looked up from the paper, whatever he saw in Watson’s face was enough to put it down, light his pipe and say, “How are you feeling, old man?”

 

Like I've been hit my a train. He thought, but instead said, “As good as can be expected,” and sat down at his own chair, worried Holmes would tell him to eat on the floor like the dog he was.

 

Holmes puffed his pipe to life and sat back. “I must apologise again for yesterday,” he sighed, sending whisps of smoke from his nose. “You must understand, the whole thing was quite a shock, and I'm... unused to handling these types of situations.”

 

Watson nodded along, grateful he wasn't being thrown out just yet, “You needn't apologize, it was an understandable reaction, considering.”

 

“Quite.” Holmes watched him through the smoke, and again the image of an angry dragon came to mind. Watson swallowed past a hard lump and poured himself some tea. His hands were shaking, his throat was tight but he would face this head on.

 

“I'd like to thank you,” he started and felt his throat go dry, he pushed through when Holmes tilted and eyebrow at him. “You were kind to me, despite what I told you, and I appreciate it Holmes.”

 

Holmes waved a dismissive hand, but Watson could see the tension in his shoulders, “It was nothing, I listened Watson, that is all.”

 

“And I thank you for listening,” he said and steeling himself he continued, “If it will be acceptable, might I impose upon your kindness a little longer?”

 

Holmes turned to look at him, expression curious. Watson swallowed and quickly pressed on.

 

“I can leave within three days? I just need to find a new place and-”

 

“You will not leave!” he all but snapped, and Watson flinched at the hard tone, but hope mixed in with the fear and he dared to look at Holmes, who was glaring at the table. His gaze flicked to Watson and then he stared at him intensely. “I am lost without my Boswell.”

 

Watson shook his head, “Holmes a blind man could see your disgust with me.” he smiled, “I appreciate your kindness, but I can not put you through that.”

 

Holmes stood instantly, pacing the small space of the sitting room, his hands folded and eyes intense. “You assume I am angry at discovering your nature!”

 

“What else on earth could it be?” Watson challenged, feeling his own temper finally rear its head. He wasn’t a fool, and he wouldn’t let his friend sway him so easy, no matter the goodness of his intentions.

 

“I was not angry at you for being an invert!” he spun on him, then turned away, “I was angry because...” and he faltered, turning his back on Watson to stare out the window.

 

Watson took a large gulp of tea, grateful for the moisture to his throat. “Because what Holmes?” He didn’t believe for one second that Holmes’ anger wasn’t because of his nature. His friend often accused him of not being able to deduce, but there wasn’t a whole lot of ways he could interpret this.

 

“I’m not sure if I should tell you,” Holmes finally said, and turned to face him with a fierce expression, “But you may rest assured I do not find your nature repulsive, nor a problem.”

 

Watson sighed, his own weariness beginning to take a toll, “Holmes - “

 

“Please Watson!” Holmes resumed his pacing, “Let the matter be!”

 

“I can not!” he finally, finally snapped, and as he rose his anger did as well, “Your expression was clear, Holmes! Your reaction was one of disgust and revulsion, how else am I supposed to interpret that? You found me, or at the very least my activities, _revolting_!”

 

In the ringing silence Holmes stood perfectly still, his eyes focussing on a spot on the floor. Watson could see the gears turning, the thoughts mulling. Whatever Holmes was trying to achieve it would not work. Watson couldn’t put his friend through this, not when he knew how he felt. With a hard sigh, Watson sat back down, letting his head rest on his hands.

 

What an utter mess this was.

 

“It should have been me.”

 

It was so soft, Watson was certain he hadn’t heard correctly. Pulling his head up he looked at Holmes, whose gaze still pinned to the floor.

 

“What?”

 

“Me Watson!” Holmes snapped. Now he was angry, hands explaining with sharp gestures, and eyes almost wild, “You should have been with me!” he turned, resumed his pacing, hands now tight behind his back, as if trying to restrain himself, “Not some person you haven’t seen in how long. They shouldn’t rank higher in your personal life than I do!”

 

The words could have knocked him to the floor, they made him dizzy and dazed, this couldn’t be happening – the world was tilting in every sense of the word. But Holmes was still talking.

 

“When I saw you I was shocked – yes. I’d never deduced anything of the sort about you! But I felt anger and, yes, revulsion at the thought that someone else was...!” he was still pacing, his hands seemingly trying to create words from the air itself, his voice was now bitter and for a moment Watson spared a worry their land lady might hear all of this. But Holmes continued unperturbed, “That you were with someone else!”

 

Finally he came to a stop, his hands pressed to the fire-place mantle, and shoulders rising from his heavy breathing. “But after what you shared with me last night,” Holmes said as he straightened. He turned an unreadable expression on Watson, who felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest turning it tight and full, “I thought it best I should keep such things to myself. Lest you leave.” he laughed bitterly, “But now you want to leave despite my assurances, and I find myself in quite a predicament.”

 

His eyes dropped along with his shoulders, and Watson could not remember a time his friend had looked so lost. “I am sorry, Watson.” he said softly. “I never meant for you to know, especially now, but I simply can not stand the thought of you leaving -”

 

Watson’s legs moved of their own accord. He stood to grab both of Holmes’ arms, halting his movement and his words. Holmes fell silent, the tension in his body visible in the tautness of his shoulders and worry in his eyes.

 

“You were always my first choice.” Watson said.

 

“What?”

 

“If I had know you were so inclined Holmes, I would have approached you _years_ ago...” he hovered, uncertain, worried if he was allowed to do more than this. But his self-restraint was buckling and he gently took hold of Holmes face, “You are my everything.”

 

“I don’t know if... I would have been as open to it... as I am now.” His eyes were pooled with wonder, with emotion to intense Watson was struggling to pin it down. But hope was mingled within it at the very least. So he pressed a little closer.

 

“Are you? Truly?”

 

Holmes frowned, expression fearful and worried. “I don’t know... I just know I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to be with someone else, I want you to be here, with me.”

 

Watson let out a breath and pressed his head into Holmes’ strong shoulder. “That, Holmes is more than enough for me.”

 

“Is it?” the worried tone in that voice served to only melt his heart further.

 

“Anything you can give, my friend. Anything you can give.”

 

Tentatively long arms slid around him, pulling him a little closer, Watson closed his eyes and rested his hands on Holmes' still tight shoulders. His friend wasn't exactly comfortable, but Watson took this moment with both hands. It was probably all he would ever get, but more than he could ever have hoped for.

 

They stood as such for some time, listening to the rain and their breathing which fell into a gentle rhythm. Watson found it hard to part, and decided to remain until Holmes broke the embrace.

 

Finally Holmes did pull away, but only to meet Watson’s eyes. “What about you?” he asked, keeping his contact still light yet firm. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable -”

 

“You could never make me uncomfortable.” Watson answered but Holmes still seemed unconvinced. Watson pressed a little closer once more, face buried back into his shoulder, “You’re the only person I could ever truly trust Holmes.”

 

The arms suddenly tightened and Watson felt Holmes press his own face into his neck, holding him as if he might lose him in the next breath.

 

After another few moments they did finally part, both blinking, and feeling some awkwardness from the whole affair. But Holmes went to light his pipe, and Watson finished his cold breakfast. The sudden distance made him worry and for a few minutes he fretted, wondering if the whole affair would only serve in making Holmes uncomfortable.

 

When he finished his meal he made to say something, but the words died on his lips. Holmes stood by the window, posture relaxed, eyes bright and with a contended smile. Ad expression he often wore at concerts after he’d seen the first half of a magnificent performance, and eagerly awaited the second act.

 

Watson relaxed, and sipped his tea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun with this one ^_^ Holmes is a little sweetie-pie.
> 
> Next chapter will be set between the first and second :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This takes place between chapters 1 and 2

Thunderclouds had begun their journey across the bleak sky, rumbling calls and flashes of lightning bringing the slow descent of rain.

 

Watson had fallen asleep hours ago, and Holmes hadn't moved an inch since then. His hand was firmly wrapped around his friends, in his sleep Watson's hand tightened and Holmes squeezed back.

 

He could have handled it better. He'd just been so surprised, so out of his element, the only emotion he could get a hold of was anger. And he still wasn't sure why he'd even been angry. Never had he ever even dreamed to see Watson in such a state, as if he was breaking down from inside.

 

A soft rumble pulled his gaze to the window moments before a loud burst of rain pelted the glass. Holmes sat back and watched the streaks of water run down the glass.

 

Watson, despite his open face, was good at hiding what he needed to. Up until a few hours ago, Holmes had been convinced his family life had been, at the very least, normal. How wrong he'd been.

 

His eyes slid shut. How dare that bastard? How dare that underhanded little blackguard hurt Watson in such a way? If he were alive, Holmes would hunt him down and destroy him, he would tear him apart -

 

Watson whimpered in his sleep and Holmes quickly released his tight hold which had turned vice-like. He flexed his hand, and Watson rolled away from him. His friend had been hurt, partly because of his history and partly because of Holmes. More anger would not help, he needed to clear his head.

 

He stood suddenly. The need to speak with someone almost palpable. Pausing at the door he gave his friend a longing stare. Wishing he could understand why he'd felt so possessive, why it had brought him to such a state of fury.

 

Why it had hurt so much when he'd seen them together. Taking the steps slowly he gathered his coat and hat and went down the final 17 steps. Watson would be out for a while yet, and Holmes needed someone who might understand. Or at least tolerate him for a few hours.

 

“What's happened to the doctor?”

 

Holmes who had just stepped into his brother's sitting room, shot him a fierce glare, but his brother only raised a sharp eyebrow and turned back to his reading. “You are pale, nervous and clearly worried. If it had something to do with a case your stride would have been more certain, but you hesitated before hanging up your hat. That and you hesitated a full minute before even walking in, which means you are wondering if you should even be here, thus it is a personal matter.”

 

“And how do you know it has anything to do with Watson?”

 

Mycroft took a deep drag from his pipe, “You've never been concerned with discussing personal matters before, but this time you are clearly uncertain if you should discuss it with me. Which means it concerns someone you know, and the only person you care enough about, other than myself, is the doctor.”

 

He moved closer, his step a little more careful under the sudden onslaught of deduction. Damn his brother and his insight.

 

Mycroft looked up and smiled when he approached, “That, and he is not here.”

 

Holmes collapsed in a chair opposite, “I've visited without him before.”

 

“Never in this state.” he smiled, “He is the only person who could truly upset you, Sherlock.”

 

His name was said gently, a means to calm him and - damn him - it worked. Holmes eased back in his chair, taking a deep breath to find a sort of center. Mycroft remained silent, thankfully and continued to puff on his pipe.

 

Outside the rain continued to fall, and Holmes felt for a moment lost in the warmth and comfort. The problems from earlier suddenly so very far away. “I don't know if I should tell you.” he finally said.

 

“But you are here.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Which means you do wish to share something.”

 

He did, but he truly had no idea where to start. Holmes shifted and tucked himself into the chair, keeping his feet on the ground. Mycroft never liked it when he had them on the upholstery.

 

“Start at the beginning, Sherlock.”

 

He shook his head, “I don't know if I have a right to.”

 

“Ah,” Mycroft chuckled, “You've finally figured out his nature, have you?”

 

Holmes went cold, and turned to his brother who smiled at him, with a touch of smugness. “He hides it well.”

 

“Pray tell, when did you figure it out?”

 

“I should say about five seconds ago.”

 

Holmes sat up, feeling his anger bubble to the surface, but Mycroft waved a hand. “I'd always had a suspicion, but your reaction simply confirmed it.”

 

He collapsed back in his chair, sorely put out. “I don't know why I put up with you.”

 

Mycroft snorted and puffed his pipe.

 

The silence was welcoming and allowed Holmes to sort his thoughts into something a bit more cohesive. Mycroft knew the basis of it, but the worst of it... he didn't know why he was here, but the thought of Watson going through such a sordid thing, such a horrible thing had left him shaken. He needed some guideline on how to proceed.

 

But he wasn't sure if his brother could help.

 

So he sat and listened to the tick of the clock, and the quiet puffs from his brother's pipe, and waited for words to come.

 

It would be another ten minutes before Mycroft spoke again. “Who hurt him?”

 

Holmes closed his eyes, “His family.”

 

“Hm.” that was not a confirmation, that was a declaration of taking it further. And Mycroft would figure it out, somehow he would-

 

“His father or his brother?”

 

Holmes sat up, feeling his anger well up. “How did you know?”

 

“Well it had to be one of those, his mother probably didn't...” but something in his expression shifted, and Holmes knew in his anger he'd given away too much, he'd assumed too soon. Mycroft's eyes widened, and he sat back, suddenly stunned. Something which Holmes could not remember ever happening before that moment.

 

“Oh,” he said softly, then cleared his throat. “I see.”

 

Holmes buried his face in his hands, unable to look at him. Sharp ugly images filtered through his head without his consent, he couldn't stop thinking about what Watson had gone through. “I don't know what to do.”

 

“Well what can you do.” his voice sounded rougher, and he cleared his throat again, “What's done is done, no changing what happened.”

 

Holmes sat back and shook his head, “No,” he smiled bitterly, “I confronted him about his... nature, he was so upset Mycfort, so viciously upset. I'd hurt him. In my anger and jealously, I'd hurt him and in his shock he'd revealed his horrible past.”

 

Mycroft stood suddenly and went to pour them each a stiff shot of brandy. When he retuned Holmes had wrapped his arms around his midsection, sorely tempted to pull his feet up onto the sofa. He took the brandy and watched the fire.

 

Mycroft sat down, “He wants what he already has.”

 

“Riddles, Mycfroft?” Holmes spat, and his brother sighed.

 

“He wants everything to be al right, he wants you to still be his friend despite it all, and not reject him.”

 

“That goes without saying!” Holmes said, slamming his fist into the arms rest.

 

Mycroft nodded, “But he needs proof.” he took a sip from his brandy before meeting his eyes, “That is all, Sherlock.”

 

Realization dawned, of course. Watson had seen and endured so much rejection in his life it was understandable that all he wanted was acceptance. His violent reaction to Holmes' confrontation suddenly made much more sense. Holmes nodded slowly, and with a quick motion he downed the brandy and stood. “Thank you, brother,” he touched his shoulder briefly and Mycroft looked up at him with a soft smile.

 

He'd just grabbed his hat when Mycroft called, “And I'd like to advise you, if I may. If what you felt was jealousy, perhaps you need to reassess your own nature as well.” he chuckled, “At least when it comes to the doctor.”

 

Holmes remained standing for a full ten seconds before leaving without a goodbye. Watson was sleeping and whatever his feelings on the matter, he didn't want him to wake up to an empty house. He kept walking, trying to keep Mycroft's words from taking too much ground in his head.

 

But it spun and danced in his thoughts like a top. He had felt jealously, blinding jealousy when he saw Watson and that... man. Instant anger shot through him and Holmes had to hold back striking out. Damn that stranger for even touching him! Watson was his!

 

He came to a sudden stop in the street, the rain pouring over him onto the empty pavement.

 

It wasn't a new thought, if he were honest with himself. He'd thought about Watson in that particular way for years. But never had it been so wild and bright, so fierce and intense that the thought felt like it might burn him from inside out.

 

“Sir?”

 

He looked up into the face of a cabdriver standing on his hansom, “Do you need a ride, sir?”

 

Holmes wordlessly stepped in, called the address and sat back. Even if he did have such a regard for Watson, he highly doubted his friend would even be open to such a thing. And there was no guarantee Watson actually shared Holmes' regard in turn.

 

But for now, he would do as Mycroft said, he would make sure his friend understood he would, at the very least be that, his dearest and only friend. He would make Watson feel accepted.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing a multi-chapter with eventual Sherlock/Watson, but here is a short one-shot for now :)


End file.
